A wave of nostalgia hit me tonight while I walked the dog. It was dark outside, yet hot and humid enough for a simple stroll to quickly bring sweat to my brow. I was reminded of my hometown in the heartland, the Great Lakes region where people are familiar with the long, cold, snowy winters. Less known, though, are the short, hot, humid summers.
Growing up, there was, at best, a baker's dozen of days that were perfect. No humidity. No coats needed. No blizzards, tornadoes, or heat alerts. When it wasn't cold enough for your snot to turn icy after two minutes in the elements. And it wasn't eighty degrees with 90% humidity—that means mist in the air for you Southern Californians.
Nightlife on hot, humid nights was dangerous. The residual Puritanical ideals that lingered in the Midwest were temporarily put aside. It was acceptable to wear little clothing as the news warned everyone of the very real potential for heat stroke. The misty air in the night clubs mixed with the overall lack of clothing lead to very, very poor choices.
These were the nights the shy girl became emboldened due to her unusually excessive amount of skin showing. Men's ability to control their urges became internal Holy Wars as women in short skirts, tiny dresses, and crop tops danced around them. Everyone was sweaty. Everyone.
The sweat, mist, skin, and darkness became a recipe for bad decisions.
These nights created spring babies and chlamydia outbreaks.
Alcohol was the catalyst on hot, humid nights for women, who usually took pause, to throw caution to the wind and lead a man they'd just met to the promised land—her bed, car, or the bar bathroom, whichever fit her fancy. Men rejoiced and everyone's orgasms hit just a little bit harder.
While Mother Nature was at rest before the inevitable thunder storm that followed hot, humid nights filled with stagnant mist in the air, men and women were drinking, fucking, and sweating like the gales that were to come.
Those memories are hazy, but I'm pretty sure I had a great time—sans chlamydia.